


Oh My God They Were Roommates

by MirrorElm



Series: Roommate AU [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alfie has tattoos, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drugs, Fluff, M/M, Past Abuse, Roommates, Trauma, roommates trope, some domination, very little smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23297674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorElm/pseuds/MirrorElm
Summary: Tommy Shelby has run off from his home he shares with Mosley, carrying nothing but a half-full duffle bag and a bruise. He needs a cheap place to stay at, away from his family's prying eyes, so he can figure out what to do now. After some scrolling, he finds a cheap listing with only one tenant, that tenant being a young baker by the name of Alfie Solomons.ORA shameless Oh My God They Were Roommates fic with a bit of angst, lots of fluff and a happy ending.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: Roommate AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679203
Comments: 49
Kudos: 208





	1. The Setup

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is my first fic. The whole thing's written out, but I have to re-read it before I post the rest. I'll try to do this daily until it's done.  
> Hope you enjoy :)

The Coffee Chap is a small café on a small street with a tattered wooden frame on the edges of its walls and an unsteady black staircase leading down to its interiors. The gold writing on its glass has begun to flake off, Tommy notes as he stares at it from inside, doing his best to focus on anything but the throbbing pain emanating from his right forearm and the fear rising in his chest.

He needs to think. Fast. He can’t go home. Can’t face Mosley, not right now. His thoughts are spinning. This isn’t good. Fuck, he can’t spiral. No time for panic.

Deep breath in.

Hold.

Deep breath out.

He repeats this until the fog in his mind dissipates a little and he can come up with something. Tommy unclenches his fists, finally letting go of the straps attached to his duffle bag, and takes a sip from the tea he’d ordered.

Right, so his apartment is not an option. He needs some distance, which means he needs a place to stay. Tommy briefly considers turning to his family, but embarrassment coils tightly in his chest and he thinks better of it. Wouldn’t want to burden them with this, anyway.

A hotel, maybe? Not in this city, he remembers. Not with a name like Shelby. There would be too much bustle around him and Polly would find out. He’d have to go by a pseudonym and hope they don’t ask for any identification. Which they usually do. Fuck. A shoddy hostel would be a good place to lay low for a bit, but it doesn’t feel like the safest option. He needs a cheap place with his own room and a lock.

Tommy browses the internet for available apartments and rooms. Money hasn’t been an issue since his father disappeared and Polly took over the crumbling Shelby horse training company. With a new attitude and policy, she’d built up a new empire. And with that empire came wealth.

However, Tommy can’t browse through high end apartments now. Ever since he’d left rehab, Polly has been checking his expenditures. If he doesn’t want to alert her, he has to keep within his cash budget, which isn’t enough for the comfortable luxury he’s become used to. It doesn’t really matter to him anyways, he’ll be fine without floor heating and marble countertops. Just needs a few days to calm down and sort this out.

There’s a listing for a room in an apartment not too far, fairly cheap with no down payments. It doesn’t look like too much of a shithole and there’s only one other tenant. He calls the number listed as the owner, Chester Campbell.

“Hello?” answers an old disgruntled voice.

“Hello, I’m calling about the room you’ve got listed on apartments.net. I assume it’s still free?”

“Yes, well, it is,” the voice answers hesitantly.

“I’d like to move in, then,” he coughs, “today, actually.”

There’s silence on the other end and then a thoughtful _hmmm_.

“Might I inquire as to why you wish to move in so quickly?”

“No,” Tommy answers curtly. A disapproving noise rings through the phone, but the man reluctantly agrees to show him the apartment in an hour with a half year contract at hand. Tommy hangs up, a little relieved, now that he has a place for the night, but the events of the day still weigh him down like a stone and there’s a persistent tightness choking him from the inside. He feels a need he hadn’t felt in quite a while, so he goes to see Cookie.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There is absolutely nothing, right, nothing, that could make this day any fucking worse. If Rita ever fucking comes near his ass with those fucking acrylic nails ever fucking again, Alfie will personally rip them off one by fucking one and throw them into the fucking biohazard bin along with the rest of her. That old hag can find herself a fucking boy toy to play around with somewhere else and not the fucking bakery he has to work at, yeah?

Alife is walking home from a long shift at the Baked Bread bakery (it’s a stupid fucking name, innit?), fuming from his latest encounter with the local groping granny, when his phone rings.

Oh look, it can get worse. It’s Chester the Cheapskate.

“What?” he all but shouts into the phone.

“Afternoon Alfie,” he hears the exasperated voice on the other end. Seems they are both fucking tired of dealing with each other, “I’ve got you a new roommate. He’s coming to check the apartment in an hour and will probably move in today.”

“Fucking what?” Alfie grumbles, “feels like we’re skipping a couple of fucking steps here, don’t it, Mr. Campbell?”

“Yes, well, he’s willing to pay,” Chester sounds as unimpressed as ever. Yeah, that’s all he cares about. The fucking money. He’s not the one who’s gonna have to fucking deal with a possible runaway murderer in his home tonight, is he? _Fucking cunt._

“What was that?” Campbell sounds irritated. Might have said that last part out loud.

“Nothing,” as much as Alfie would like to openly call Chester the fucking cunt that he is, it wouldn’t do wonders for his living situation, yeah, so he has to keep his fucking mouth shut. For now.

They hang up and Alfie trots on home, fully convinced that his courtesy call was a veiled prompt to make him tidy the fucking place up, right, but Alfie doesn’t feel like doing Chester a fucking favour. The apartment stays as it fucking is.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tommy walks along the streets of his new to-be-temporary-home, finishing a cigarette. It’s not as bad as he’d feared but not as good as he’d hoped. There is an old man standing in front of an old pale-beige apartment building. He assumes that’s Mr. Campbell.

The man in question is wearing an old black coat with an old bowler hat, holding an old pipe. Every part of him reminiscent of a time long gone. Smoke puffs from his irritated face from beneath a well-groomed grey moustache. What the fuck is he, a comic book villain?

Tommy takes a deep breath and thinks of the small brown package in his bag, the dull pain in his arm weak, but constant. _Just a little longer_ , he sighs to himself, and approaches him carefully, “Mr. Campbell?”

The man turns an offers a polite smile, extending his right hand, “Mr. Shelby, I presume?” He seems to assess the younger man as they shake hands and it’s not hard to notice the poorly hidden disapproval, “this way,” he points with his veneer of friendliness, through which a five-year-old would be able to see through. But Tommy only matches his smile, he needs the apartment. Needs a room with a lock. Tonight.

They slowly climb up three flights of stairs, “the elevator’s broken, for now. But it will be fixed within a week,” Chester reassures and Tommy pretends to care. They arrive at the apartment, 304. Chester knocks and there’s a grumble from inside. A little while later, the door is unlocked and left ajar, the person having opened it already lumbering back to his place from within without greeting the men at the door.

“This is, uh,” Chester begins, “your roommate, Alfie Solomons.” There’s disdain in his voice when he says the name and Tommy isn’t sure if that’s a bad sign or a good one. They let themselves in and Tommy pays little attention to the mess around him. It doesn’t matter right now, his right arm has begun screaming at him and his throat is closing up. He needs to sign this contract and get to his room quickly. The small brown bottle is calling to him from within his bag. A promise of numbness, maybe even some sleep.

His new roommate sits at the dining table in the kitchen, pretending he’s alone, reading a book with oddly shaped glasses on his face. They’re half rounded, attached to a chain, hanging on him like a necklace and seemingly ancient, which is a stark contrast to the loose black hoodie, grey sweatpants and grey socks tucked neatly into dirty old blue slippers. He’s got an unkempt beard and short hair standing out at odd angles. Tommy doesn’t miss the once over he gets from the man as he steps into the kitchen.

He listens to Campbell’s speech about the rules and whatever else with feigned concertation and signs the small stack of papers the old man had brought with him. After handing him the money, the Chester leaves with a curt nod in both Alfie and Tommy’s direction and Tommy notices the bearded man flip off the door before he himself disappears into his new bedroom with his luggage, locking himself in.

The room is small. There’s a single in the corner. The mattress is covered with an old sheet that used to be white, Tommy guesses, but there’s no pillow or blanket on it. There’s a small wooden dresser at its foot and a wooden desk next to the door to Tommy’s left, below the only window in the room, with a small plastic chair.

The duffle bag lays carelessly thrown on the ground and Tommy stares at it. An enchanting force pulls him towards it as he takes out and cradles the small brown bottle in his hands. It had been years since he stopped taking opium, but today has been… painful.

If he’s honest with himself, Tommy thinks, it has really been a struggle ever since he’d moved in with Mosley. But it was the proper thing to do, wasn’t it? A man of Mosley’s standing and reputation (and capital) interested in the shy blue-eyed stable boy from the Shelby Company. How could he say no? It’s not like he was disgusted by Mosley, at least not at first.

But the last few months in that apartment had taken their toll on Tommy. Hollowed him out from the inside and today’s argument had scraped all willpower that he had left. Years of being clean and all it took was a bad day in a bad relationship. Tommy felt ashamed and he curled in on himself on the mattress, in his palm the still unopened bottle. Why was he so weak? Why was it all so hard?

Tears threatened to escape him as he clutched the bottle, when he heard a knock on his door.

“Uh, Tommy, right?” he hears muffled by the wood, “am ‘bout to make dinner, yeah, you ain’t vegan, are you?”

Tommy’s brows wrinkle at that and he does his best to answer with a neutral voice, “I’m not hungry,” his back still turned to the door.

There’s low grunting noises from the other side of the door, then silence. After a while, Tommy hears the clinking of pans in the kitchen, occasional swearing and the sizzling of food being cooked. He focuses on that to keep his eyes from watering and his thoughts away. If all he thinks about is the noises coming from the other room, he doesn’t have to think about how pathetic and helpless he feels.

After a while, he hears shuffling and another knock at his door.

“Right, so I made dinner and you’re fucking eating it, all right?” the voice sounds sure and commanding, even through the door.

Tommy turns to face it, “I told you I’m not hungry.”

“Yeah, well,” the voice speaks as if they were in a casual conversation and there wasn’t several centimetres of wood between them and opium clutched in Tommy’s clammy fingers, “by the state of you, I’d venture to guess you’re never fucking hungry, right? So get the fuck over here and fucking eat dinner. It’s chicken risotto and if I might fucking add, a fucking delicious chicken risotto at that and I am not going to fucking throw it away, mate.”

“Why do fucking you care if I eat, eh?” Tommy spits, sitting up, glaring at the handle.

There’s some hesitation from the other side, “corpses, mate. They don’t tend to fucking pay rent, do they?” the handle moves, “oh for fuck’s sake, _locked_?”

Tommy trembles slightly when the door rattles, but it doesn’t give and he breathes a sigh of relief when the string of curses moves away from the door along with the man muttering them. Corpses don’t pay rent, no, but Tommy’s not dead. Yet. It is true, though, that he hasn’t eaten much lately and today, he hasn’t eaten anything at all. The smell of food wafting between the cracks of the doorframe awaken a deep hunger in him, but his pride keeps him firmly seated on the bed, clutching the brown bottle.

If he takes the opium, the hunger leaves, at least for a little bit. He suddenly remembers his reflection at 16. Skinny to a point where he could visually trace the outlines of his skeleton through his skin.

Ironically, it was malnutrition and not an overdose that finally took him to a doctor. Tommy sees the faces of his family. They all blamed themselves for Tommy’s weakness. He can’t do that to them again.

The brown bottle ends up in the bottom drawer of the nightstand and Tommy swallows his pride as he unlocks the door and steps out into the kitchen.

It’s dark outside, but the kitchen is illuminated by a single wall lamp, making it seem warm and inviting. His roommate is standing at the sink, filling a glass with water, his back turned to Tommy. He turns and grins smugly, “couldn’t resist the smell, could you, mate?”

Tommy keeps his face neutral, but shoots the other man a glare, emphasising his lack of bemusement at such juvenile comments.

Alfie keeps his smirk and sets down the glass of water, taking out another one and filling it too. Tap water, Tommy can live with that. What he might not be able to live with, however, is the state of the kitchen, now that he takes a moment to properly look at it.

There are crumbs littered around randomly and the sink is so cluttered with dishes, Tommy wonders how the fuck Alfie was able to fill two glasses with water. For some reason, there’s flour _everywhere_ and he spots what seemed to have once been some kind of fruit, but is now definitely a health hazard, on the counter in a bowl. He understands now why Alfie wears slippers, even if they are ghastly, because as he moves to sit at the dinner table, there’s everything from dust to crumbs to _fucking flour_ sticking to his socks.

Tommy is about to voice his disapproval, when Alfie turns to him, “Oi, not there, lad,” he points sternly at the other man, “that’s _my_ fucking chair, mate.”

Is he serious? He seems to be serious, arms crossed, green eyes unflinchingly set on him until he moves one chair to the left, at which point the other man seems pleased enough to finish the dinner preparation. He places a plate in front of Tommy and sits down himself with his own.

Alfie begins eating while Tommy stares at him, a little bewildered.

“You gonna fucking eat or what?” Alfie throws his way, “making me fucking twitchy with that fucking stare. You gonna bewitch me with those eyes, mate?”

“No,” Tommy says and begins eating himself. The other man seems caught off guard with that. He only offers a throaty _hmm_ in response. The food is good and probably the most healthy thing Tommy has eaten in months, but he can’t eat more than half of his plate, his stomach steadfastly declaring it’s full after the first few bites. They finish their meal in silence and Tommy is about to stand up and lock himself back into his room when the other man clears his throat.

“So, Tommy, is it?” he starts, “sit down lad, we’re having a talk now, yeah?”

It’s the familiar tone of authority that makes Tommy want to rebel against it, but he supposes he did just get a free dinner and he’ll have to put up with this man for a while, so he sits back down begrudgingly.

The bearded fellow takes a sip from his water, shifts about somewhat uncomfortably and asks Tommy if he’d like some tea. After he refuses, the man finally blurts out, “How old are you?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Weird question, but Tommy indulges him, “I’m 23. Why?”

“You don’t look 23,” the other man replies, serious, “You see, Tommy, when Chester called me to tell me there’s a fucking loony who wants to immediately, no questions asked, move in, yeah, I was a little perturbed, wasn’t I? Thought he might move me in with the fucking mafia or something,” he meaningfully strokes his beard, “then, in here, through that door, comes you,” he gestures at Tommy, “a dainty little fucking thing with the bluest fucking eyes and eyelashes that could fucking murder a man, right, with your posh little clothing and nothing more than a fucking duffle bag,” he pauses, “and I think to myself, right? I think, this ain’t no fucking mafia, naah, this is a lost little boy who ran away from home and is using up his _hard-earned_ allowance to spend a night away from… what is it, abusive parents? Or maybe, given you’re probably a rich kid with no real fucking problems, daddy didn’t get the new car you wanted, yeah?”, he nods to himself, “A posh runaway teenager, aren’t you?”

The nerve of this fucker. Tommy furrows his eyebrows and eyes the other man in utter disbelief, “Is that what you think, eh?”

“Yeah, that’s what I fucking think, mate,” comes the immediate reply, but Tommy doesn’t even wait for the other man to finish before he jumps from his seat and goes to his coat, hanging by the front door. He fishes out his student card and slams it on the table. He could really use a cigarette right now, but he’s already had one on his way over and he’s trying to cut back.

Alfie studiously examines the student card, “not a teenager,” he concludes, no remorse for any false assumptions he might have had, “just a runaway, then?”

“None of your fucking business,” Tommy spits back, clenching his jaw. This arrogant selfish fucker, no regard for any sort of decorum, just saying what he thinks. Fucking bastard.

“Seeing as how I’m meant to be sharing this lovely fucking shithole with you,” Alfie retorts, calm as ever, “I’d like to at least receive a fucking warning, yeah, before someone shows up here either threatening you or begging you to come back or whatever fucking other reason forced your posh little arse to stay here, right?”

A great time for Tommy’s phone to start ringing. Fucking great.

Mosley’s name looms large on Tommy’s screen, but he doesn’t answer. He puts his phone on silent and tucks it away again, looking straight down onto the floor.

“Who’s Oswald?”

Of course he fucking peeked. Why wouldn’t he?

“Fuck off,” Tommy sets his eyes on the other man, completely done with his shit.

“Hit a nerve there, did I?” he sounds so fucking pleased with himself, “he your ex? Let me take a gander, yeah,” not again, “you came home early today, right, and your boy, Oswald, was it? Yeah, Oswald was fucking a different pretty thing, right? A right fucking bastard, he is, who don’t appreciate you, ain’t he? Or maybe he just broke that one really fucking pretty vase you have which he’s always secretly hated? Hmm?”

“No,” Tommy means to sound spiteful, angry, but his voice cracks into a pitiful thing and the stare he gives Alfie is less menacing than it is broken. It stops the other man dead in his tracks. The smug smile vanishes. Tommy clutches his right arm.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to-,” Alfie starts, fumbling, voice gone soft, but Tommy can’t be there anymore, he needs to be alone. He stands up and rushes to his room, locking himself away once again.

_You pathetic little thing. Go on, look at me with those hurt eyes. Like you deserve any better._

The words swim like a fog around his head. He hadn’t meant to get this emotional. _Just like your crazy gypsy mother._ Stop it. He bangs his head against the wall. How did he end up on the bed? He looks down and sees the bottle. Still closed. But god does he want to open it right now and plunge himself into a sweet blissful haze. What does it matter if it’s pathetic? He’s pathetic either way, what difference does it make if he-

There’s a soft knock on the door, “Tommy?”

“Fuck off,” Tommy snarls, curling up on the bed, giving the door a cold shoulder.

“Yeah, deserve that, don’t I,” comes in reply, “I’m sorry, right? I had a fucking shit day and I’ve been a fucking bastard to you, and that’s not right, yeah. I don’t want you to fucking hate me, yeah? Cause if you do, this whole experience isn’t gonna be much fucking fun, now is it?”

Silence.

“I’ve got desert,” a peace offering, “made pie this morning. It’s got blueberries, fucking delicious, mate. A religious fucking experience, I guaran-fucking-tee it.”

“I don’t want your fucking pity,” Tommy speaks more to the wall than anything else, “so fuck off.”

“Oi,” an offended grunt follows, “ain’t about fucking pity, is it? We’ve all had shit days and I fucking assume yours has been shittier than mine and I just want to be a nice fucking roommate, yeah, you ungrateful shite.”

Tommy can’t help but chuckle. Boy is Alfie bad at this. But he appreciates the distraction. He even forgot about the opium for a moment. Still, in the quiet that follows, Tommy pulls the bottle close to his chest again.

The door handle moves again, “got fucking trust issues, don’t you Tommy?”

He thinks to leave the door locked. Wait until Alfie gives up and leaves him to his haze, but part of him thinks, what the hell? Can’t be much worse than relapsing, so he stands and goes to unlock the door, bottle still held close.

The door opens slightly and Tommy refuses to look Alfie in the eye, though he can tell by the slightly taller man’s stance that he is, indeed, sorry.

“What’cha got there, Tom?” he’s staring and the hand clutched at Tommy’s chest.

“Fuck off,” Tommy manages weakly, knuckles white from how tightly he’s holding the bottle.

“Show me, mate,” the other man prods gently, coarse hands reaching up to gingerly take hold of Tommy’s, “relax, yeah, that’s it.”

Tommy doesn’t know why, but he allows the other man to touch him and coax open his grip. It seems far more monumental than it is, revealing that small brown bottle, but Tommy feels entirely too exposed at the moment.

“Nah, mate,” Alfie shakes his head, “none of that,” he takes the bottle and Tommy whines at the loss. He lets out a shaky _No_ , but Alfie keeps it out of his reach and tucks it in his back pocket with his right hand. Tommy reaches for the pocket with his right arm, but the other man grabs it and Tommy winces at the surge of pain. Alfie immediately lets go of the hand when he hears Tommy’s whimper and looks wide-eyed into scared blue eyes.

Tommy’s huddled in on himself and pressed against the wall now and he’s scared. He slides to sit on the floor, all energy to fight taken out of him with that one touch.

“Fuckin’ hell, mate,” Alfie kneels beside him, “what the fuck happened to you?”

Alfie’s careful to keep all his movements slow as not to scare the other man when he goes to examine his right hand. Glazed blue eyes are fixed at him in terror but Tommy makes no move to stop him. What’s the point? He’s too weak. Alfie carefully pulls back the sleeve of Tommy’s jumper to reveal a wide bruise forming on his forearm. Anger flashes behind Alfie’s eyes and while Tommy knows it’s not directed at him, he’s learned early on in his life that being around angry people tends to get you hurt, no matter who they’re mad at.

Noticing the panic rising in his flatmate, Alfie softens his gaze and looks Tommy in the eyes, “it’s all right, you’ll be fine, yeah?”

“You don’t fucking know that,” Tommy croaks. His breathing is hitching.

“Actually,” Alfie starts, letting go of Tommy’s hand and nestling beside him against the wall with a grunt, “I do know, yeah? Eyes on me, Tommy. See I’ve got these spectacles, right?” he fumbles with the chain to lift them up to Tommy dramatically, who wonders what the fuck he is on about, still breathing erratically, “focus, Tom. Anyways, I’ve got these spectacles, yeah, and I can not only see the little letters that are really fucking far away, mate,” is he crazy?

“I can see the fucking future,” he is, “so I know you’ll be fine, yeah, because I’ve fucking seen it, right? When I put on my spectacles this morning, I saw, among the letters in the newspaper _Tommy Shelby_ , yeah, _he’ll be alright_ ,” he turns a thoughtful gaze towards Tommy, “ _just has to get through tonight_.”

It shouldn’t work as well as it does, but for some reason, this insane person’s ramblings calm him down enough where he can breathe again. Now he just feels exhausted. He turns his head towards the bed. Right, still no pillow. Or blankets.

“I’m guessing you missed the part in the ad that says _bring your own bedding_?” it’s a rethorical question, because the other man goes to stand with a heavy groan, muttering something, leaving Tommy to himself only for a couple of minutes, returning with a pillow and two thick blankets.

“You’ve got spares?” Tommy asks.

“Yeah, well,” the other man nods, “you never know when you might fucking need them, right? With my bad back and all,” he dumps the items on the bed, then turns to the exhausted figure on the floor, “you need help getting up?”

When all he receives in return is an icy glare, he throws up his hands in defeat, “just thought I’d fucking offer, mate, fuck,” and Alfie saunters out of the room. Tommy lifts himself onto shaky legs and it must be sheer spite that gets him to the bed before Alfie returns with a small slice of blueberry pie and a fork.

Tommy, now sitting on the bed, eyes the dish with scepticism.

“It’s not gonna fucking kill you,” Alfie adds a little offended as he sets the plate on the nightstand, “barely ate anything at dinner, didn’t you? Didn’t think I’d fucking notice? Well I did, right? This’ll fill you up a little,” he sounds happy with himself and goes for the door, “eat up and sleep, all right?” he says, not turning to look at the face of discontent fixated on the mass of sugar by its side.

After the doors close, Tommy spends some time staring at the slice, then turns off the lights and huddles himself in the two blankets and tries to go to sleep. What a fucking day.


	2. Roommate fun part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slow burn? Not here, I'm afraid. Alfie and Tommy but some heads, get to know each other and then get to really know each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit long, but I prefer it in one piece.  
> Hope you enjoy :)  
> Beware, smut and some sub/dom things await toward the end (though nothing extreme).

Tommy wakes up rasping for air as if he were caught underwater. He sits up and places a hand over his chest to calm his breathing. Deep slow breaths, just like he was taught. Eventually, after staring at the old barren white wall for what feels like ages, he feels steady enough to check the time.

It’s barely six. He couldn’t fall back asleep even if he wanted to and he supposes last night’s couple of hours will have to do. Tommy dresses himself in a fresh undershirt, a plain button up and somewhat comfortable slacks, stubbornly ignoring the piece of pie still sitting invitingly at his bedside. Food never does him any good this early.

He steps out to go for a much-needed smoke through the living room window, which Mr. Campbell appointed as the only acceptable place for such heinous activities, and winces as he passes the messy kitchen. The living room isn’t much better.

Though there are far fewer crumbs, for some reason, there’s just as much _fucking flour_ scattered about. Seriously, does Alfie work at a fucking mill, or something? The old couch seems to have stains of god knows what on it and there are crocheted blankets strewn over it in an abysmal attempt at covering them. There’s a painting of a ship on the wall and of course it’s askew. The furniture is all wooden and dusty, the only place seemingly getting any use a shelf with books in what looks to be Russian and the stained (seemingly beyond salvation) coffee table.

Before he even heads to the never-before cleaned window, Tommy stops by the painting and adjusts it, because otherwise he might just lose it. He smokes a cigarette and tries to think about his predicament. Tries to sort out his feelings about his home life with Mosley, tries to process what the hell happened yesterday, how and if he could return after that, but all he can think about is how bothersome that pile of unfolded blankets in the corner is.

When he finishes his smoke, he turns and goes about finding a broom and some towels in this god forsaken place. How can Alfie live like this? Surely, even insane people must have some sanitary standards.

Upon finding a cabinet in the living room with ancient and almost completely empty cleaning supplies (there’s even a vacuum that seems like it’ll burst on fire once you touch it), Tommy sets about his work. Even with the wealth his family has acquired, Tommy has always had a sense for cleanliness and takes care of his own spaces himself. Maybe he just doesn’t like presence of maids.

He begins by firstly taking all the blankets and the rug, dusting them through the window before shoving them into the small rattling washing machine. He then finally cracks and washes the mound of dishes after which he scrubs the ever-loving shit out of the couch, managing to get most of the stains out, along with some of its original colour.

The random items on the forgotten shelves are displaced while he dusts them, then dusted themselves and replaced back to their original spaces. Getting tired of the amount of shit stuck to his socks, Tommy then sweeps the floor in the entire apartment, save for Alfie’s room, which he tries to pay no mind to, even when he does hear some shuffling from inside.

The next thing that he sets on about, as the pillows from the couch dry with the windows in the kitchen and living room open to create a refreshing draft, is the coffee table.

It seems ancient and has genuinely pretty woodwork underneath the grime that coats it, so he intends on carefully cleaning its surface. Maybe if he sands it a little and re-does the outer coating with some protective substance? Why is he even thinking about restoring an old coffee table in an apartment he doesn’t even mean to spend more than a couple of days in? He scrubs it gently and that’ll have to do.

The next thing is vacuuming all the dust he couldn’t get with the broom. Miraculously, the vacuum doesn’t combust upon ignition, even if it is exceptionally loud. Too loud, it would seem, because moments after Tommy turns it on, he hears grumbling and movement from Alfie’s room, followed by that same man angrily stomping out into the living room. In his underwear.

The first thing Tommy notices, besides the angry stare, are the tattoos that litter Alfie’s body. Alfie’s admittedly nice body. Nope, shove that thought away.

“Are you fucking serious?” he bellows, but doesn’t wait for a reply, “I can manage a roommate who wakes up at bum’fuck’o’clock, yeah? I’ve got no problem with that. But when that roommate in question, right, that roommate, spends his time at bum’fuck’o’clock rattling things around, clinking every fucking dish in the house together, stuffing cobblestones in the fucking washing machine and then, to top things off, right, then turns on hell’s vacuum itself,” he pauses dramatically, “I, my dear friend, might have a teensy fucking issue with that, right?”

“It’s eight,” Tommy replies, fixated on the way the other man’s chest rises and falls from heavy breathing and the look he gets in return is chillingly dangerous, but he doesn’t flinch. Just stares back daringly.

“It’s a FUCKING SUNDAY,” comes a shout through the beard, after which Alfie turns and stomps back into his room, slamming the door behind him. Tommy is now alone in the living room, left a little blindsided. Not so much by the yelling, but by what the yelling has caused. He tries to push back his arousal, pressing his head on the handle of the vacuum until the heat in his cheeks subsides enough for him to continue his work. It’s just the stress. Does weird things to you, right?

Tommy continues his cleaning ventures until he at least deems the place habitable, at which point he sits down at the dining table to rest.

Alfie appears from his room, this time in the grey sweatpants from yesterday. He seems to not be fuming anymore, but he ignores Tommy as he walks over to the fridge to no doubt make himself some breakfast. Tommy can’t help but notice that he’s still not wearing a shirt and that he’s stretching uncomfortably and rubbing his neck. He tries not to focus too much on his exposed chest and more so on the pockets of his pants.

Tommy wants the opium back. Even if he’s glad that Alfie took it last night, which he should probably thank him for at some point, he needs it back. Just so he knows it’s there. He doesn’t intend to indulge.

Alfie makes himself cereal and gives Tommy the stink eye, upon which he remembers, right, Tommy’s sitting in _his chair_ , and moves one to the left again. The bearded man sits down with a huff and begins eating.

“You ever fucking wear anything comfortable?” Alfie grumbles to his food, “you’ve been cleaning in a fucking dress-shirt, mate.”

“It’s comfortable enough,” Tommy retorts, “you ever wear anything that’s not comfortable?”

“For the right occasions,” the other man half mumbles. He tilts his head towards Tommy, “spit it out.”

“What?”

“You’ve been staring at me like a fucking kicked puppy, right, so what the fuck is it?” he looks him straight in the eyes and Tommy thinks, better get this over with, “I want the bottle back.”

Alfie’s stern expression is replaced by a disbelieving smile as he chuckles, “yeah right, mate, ain’t fucking happening,” he stands and carefully extracts a glass from the mound of now clean and drying dishes. Tommy sees an opportunity and follows him to the sink, hands searching the other man’s back pockets.

A low grumble escapes from inside Alfie’s chest, “most people lose a hand doing that,” he says in a deep voice, “you ain’t gonna find any fucking drugs there, mate,” Alfie leans back into Tommy and winks at him over his shoulder, “maybe you should check in the front?”

Tommy pushes himself away from the broad chest approaching him, “fuck off,” he spits, earning him a wide grin from Alfie, who now innocently sips his water. Embarrassment burns hot in his cheeks and he removes himself from this situation before the other man might notice the tenting in his pants, locking himself in his room once again.

No more procrastination, Tommy, thinks. The faster he figures his situation out, the faster he can leave this apartment and its smug inhabitant behind. He sits on the bed, rather than at the desk, leaning against the headboard and replays the last months in his head. Maybe he’s too sensitive? His father always said that he took after his mother, all emotional and unstable. But it wasn’t Tommy who’d escalated things yesterday. Not Tommy who’d started shouting and became physical. No, even if it is him, he can’t go back to Mosley.

Oswald is vile. Even thinking about his hands and the way they slither across his body makes Tommy sick. He hadn’t had much experience when their relationship started, but even he could tell that Mosley is a selfish and rough man in bed. Someone who likes to inflict pain and humiliate. Tommy’s heart clenches. The things that man made him do. It’s an internal battle between the willingness to sacrifice one’s own happiness for the good of the family. He wants to be strong and endure, but then he feels the twang from las night’s bruise.

Yeah, that’s settled. No more Mosley. Preferably ever. But how would he explain this to his family? Could they even understand? Could they see that he tried? Because he did, he tried hard to make things work. And how would he deliver the message to Mosley? Fuck, this is going to be shit.

He’ll have to see Ada first. She’s always understood him best and she’ll be in town tomorrow. One more day, then. Maybe Ada could take him in? Tommy feels ashamed and hesitates to even set up a meeting with her, but he’s tired and could really use his family right now. After that’s taken care of, he lies in his bed for a bit, calms down and remembers he hasn’t had anything to drink today yet.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tommy steps into the kitchen to make himself some tea. He notices Alfie sitting in _his_ _chair_ , reading something, paying him no mind. Not a care in the world for this bastard, now wearing a loose black t-shirt and, _ugh_ , black adidas sweatpants. His hair is still unkempt, as is his beard, which he strokes occasionally before flipping the page of his book. He has no right looking this good in that kind of state.

Catching himself before the staring becomes too obvious, Tommy turns toward the wall of dark grey furniture. Tea, right. It would be a good idea to ask for the whereabouts of the kettle, but Tommy refuses to be the first one to break the silence between them, so he starts opening cabinets methodically and closing them loudly. He figures Alfie will either ask him _what the fuck he is doing_ out of frustration, or he’ll find the kettle eventually on his own.

The fifth time he closes a cabinet door, he hears the slamming of a book shut behind him and smirks to himself. That easy, huh? However, before he can be reprimanded for his admittedly annoying behaviour, there’s shouting outside.

“Alfie Solomons you fat, limp-dicked BASTARD!”

There’s momentary surprise in the bearded man’s eyes before he ducks below the table and huddles by the radiator beneath the window, closing his eyes, scrunching his face and mumbling _Fuck_ to himself.

Tommy can’t help the slight upturn of his lips as he casually trots towards Alfie, peering through the freshly cleaned window down on the street.

There’s a woman, tall, genuinely beautiful and seething with rage yelling obscenities at the building in no particular direction. Before he can assess her any further, he feels frantic tugs at his slacks and plops himself down on the ground next to Alfie, more so to keep on his clothing than anything else.

They are now sitting arm to arm and Tommy ventures a quizzical look in Alfie’s direction. The man in question looks back and mirrors the risen eyebrows.

“You’re not going to elaborate?” Tommy speaks, curious.

“Nothing to fucking elaborate,” he shrugs, looking as innocent as always, “just a quick fuck. Perhaps a fake number.”

He receives an icy glare from Tommy, clearly signalling disapproval.

“What?” Alfie prods.

Tommy shakes his head at that, “nothing,” he looks away, shrugging, “thought you were better than that, is all.”

“Yeah?” the bearded man, sinking lower and lower to the ground sounds genuinely surprised, “nah, mate, s’all part of _the creed_.”

“What _creed_?” Tommy mimics the dramatic extension of the last word dramatically, mocking Alfie, who is now looking up at Tommy from where he lies flat on the ground. The screaming outside continues. _Show yourself you fucking coward!_

“You see,” Alfie begins, serious as ever, “it is in my knowledge, yeah, that there is no such fucking thing as good and evil, mate.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And that my father was right, yeah? That fucking bastard had it all figured out,” he twists to point at Tommy, dramatically gesturing, which must be awkward in that position, speaking in a deep booming voice, “ _Sow the seeds but do not tend the garden._ ”

Tommy doesn’t know if it’s the mock severity of the delivery or the fact that the woman had just yelled _you and your smooth fucking arse_ but it really takes all of his willpower not to start laughing, “your father taught you that, huh?”

“In a way,” Alfie says, thoughtfully, “I’ve put my own twist to it, though.”

“How’s that?” Tommy inquires.

“I use condoms,” comes in reply from a toothy grin below him and that’s enough to send Tommy over the edge. Not enough to laugh out loud, but he snickers to himself smiling wide as he slides down to lay next to his roommate.

Alfie seems stunned when Tommy turns to face him, “what?”

“Didn’t know you fucking did that,” Alfie says simply.

“Did what?” Tommy retorts, still chuckling. The other man’s green eyes become soft and crinkle at the sides as he smiles, “you laughed.”

He stills at that, caught off guard for a moment. It had been a while since he’s smiled this genuinely, he guesses, but he didn’t think it noteworthy. Why would Alfie even notice? Or care?

The shouting subsides outside and the two men are left in awkward silence on the kitchen floor. Awkward mainly for Tommy, it seems, because the other man is completely content staring into his eyes, an odd twinkle behind his expression.

It’s Tommy’s cough which breaks the spell and he speaks, “probably should get up now. Can’t be good for your back, this,” he gestures at Alfie’s awkward posture on the uneven floor.

“Didn’t think you’d remember that bit about my back,” Alfie retorts, still making no move to stand up. But then again, neither is Tommy.

“I’m a good listener,” is the reply.

“I’ve noticed,” Alfie shifts on his back, now laying on his side facing Tommy, head propped up on his right hand, “and I assume you’re a fucking brilliant observer, as well. With those fucking eyes, mate. Probably see like a hawk, yeah,” those blue eyes look at him in confusion, but he continues, undeterred, “might I implore you to check if the streets are indeed fucking empty, yeah, so we can carry on with our day in a less… horizontal position. Unless you’d prefer it that way, mate.”

That last statement is followed by a wink and Tommy huffs dismissively, yet fights to keep the heat from his face. He harrumphs his way to an upright position and takes a look through the window. Nothing but lazy Sunday traffic.

“The garden has left,” he declares dramatically.

“Thank you,” the ground answers and Tommy watches as Alfie makes a couple aborted attempts at getting up, “help a fella out, mate?” he raises his eyebrows at the other man.

Tommy crosses his arms, feeling defiant, “if you ask nicely, I might,” followed by challenging eye contact with the heap on the floor. Alfie squirms a little, then clears his throat, “your Highness Thomas Shelby, would you be able to find it in your considerably busy fucking schedule, yeah, to set aside a couple of seconds, right, to help a poor lowly fucking peasant such as myself off of the, admittedly very fucking clean, thank you for that, kitchen floor, so that he may serve you in ways other than his brilliant fucking prose?”

Tommy sighs and offers him a hand. Alfie is heavy when he pulls himself up and has to lean on the other man for a bit before he can truly bear his own weight. The whole process is followed by a string of curses, not all of which are in English. When the bearded man notices that Tommy is paying attention to him, he does his best to hide his discomfort.

“What’s it from?” Tommy asks, “your back pain.”

“Oh, that’s a lovely story, if you’d like to hear it,” Alfie limps away towards a cabinet and pulls out nothing else but the fucking kettle, “would you like to hear it over some tea, mate?”

Tommy thinks that he has to spend the day doing _something_ , so he might as well spend it getting to know his insane roommate. Pacing around in his room, trying to ignore Mosley’s calls would only make him a nervous wreck. He nods, “why not, eh?”

Alfie returns him a grin as he fills up the kettle with water, “I used to be a bull fighter, right, in my younger days”, he begins and Tommy eyes him sceptically, “then one of those buggers rammed me right up against the fucking wall, right, almost splattered me like a fucking pancake. I was lying there, in the mud, right, blood fucking everywhere-”

“Alfie,” Tommy’s tone is enough to make Alfie stop and scoff at him.

“What?” he shrugs. When the glare he receives doesn’t relent, he huffs, “yeah, alright, I fucking fell awkwardly once, broke something or pinched a fucking nerve, I don’t fucking know,” he stretches his shoulders awkwardly as he takes out the cups, “back’s been a bitch ever since. Happy with the boring fucking truth?”

“Yes,” Tommy offers, then nods in approval of Alfie’s offered selection of mint tea. He stands and goes towards the living room window to have a smoke and clears his throat, “thank you, by the way,” it feels awkward. He doesn’t turn to face the other man who follows him and leans on the doorframe.

“What for?” it’s hard to tell whether Alfie is really as oblivious as he seems.

“Yesterday,” Tommy continues, “today… the… the opium and all,” he waves the hand holding a cigarette in front of himself, “you didn’t have to look out for me the way you did. So… thank you.”

“Hmm,” the other man sounds thoughtful, “yeah that was fucking nice of me, wasn’t it? Deserves a fucking prize, some might say, yeah.”

Tommy can’t help but chuckle at that, seeing Alfie smile in his periphery. This fucking man. Not 24 hours in his life and he’s managed to be both ridiculously attractive and infuriatingly annoying. He couldn’t help but play his game. It’s the most fun he’s had in forever.

“A prize in the form of a clean apartment, perhaps?” Tommy offers nonchalantly, gesturing vaguely at what someone might call appropriate living conditions.

“That would be enough to cover it, yeah,” Alfie sounds like he’s in a classroom, solving a math problem, “ _if_ said clean apartment hadn’t cost me precious hours of sleep,” the man straightens up with something wicked in his expression, but movement causes pain to flash across his face and he grunts, sitting down on the clean couch, rubbing at his back, “fuck.”

The kettle begins to whistle and Tommy goes to take it off the heat. He pours the tea when he gets an idea.

“How about a massage?” he half shouts towards the living room, “for that old bull fighting injury of yours?”

He receives what he assumes to be an affirming grunt and sets on preparing a simple salve his mother taught him to make when he was a kid. Rummaging through the cabinets he surprisingly finds all he needs as the lumbering figure of pain sits itself down at the dining table.

“So what’s your story, then, Thomas Shelby?” Alfie grunts as he sips his tea.

Tommy turns his head towards him at that, unsure how to answer. His first instinct is to just say _Fuck off_ , but for some reason, be it the seemingly genuine interest in those intense green eyes, or the lack of willpower left to keep his guard up, he answers honestly, “just a boy from a family brought from the edge of poverty into the world of the rich.”

“Hmm,” Alfie nods, “a real Cinderella story, yeah? Oswald have anything to do with it?”

“No,” Tommy grinds the herbs a little harder than strictly necessary, “my wicked aunt brought us fortune. No glass slippers, I’m afraid. And you, Alfie Solomons?”

“I’m a baker,” Alfie begins, “a fucking good one at that, if you’ve bothered to fucking taste that pie yesterday, right? My mother washed sheets and my father, well he was a fucking hat, mate. No wicked aunt to bring us fortune, no. My mother washed sheets and I learned to bake, so that’s what I fucking do now, innit?”

When Alfie stops talking, Tommy is almost surprised. This man is seemingly able to spin endless tales about everything and nothing and yet when it comes to _his story_ he’s suddenly very curt.

“Alfie?”

“Hmm?”

For some reason, Tommy has more interest in his roommate than he’s had in anyone in a long time. Perhaps it’s the insanity, maybe it’s rubbing off on him, “why do you live here? In this shithole?”

“What ever do you mean?” the other man speaks again in his whimsical tone, “It’s a lovely place, innit?”

“Yeah,” Tommy smirks, “real lovely,” he gives Alfie a look with his eyebrows raised.

“Alright, mate, alright,” Alfie relents, “I’m saving up, yeah?”

“What for?”

“Well it’s all part of _the creed_ ,” Alfie states as if it were obvious.

“Is it now?” Tommy indulges.

“Why of course it is, yeah, _the process of accumulation_ , innit? Valuable thing money, can’t have enough, can you?” it’s enough to get another chuckle out of Tommy, who agrees, “mhm, your father teach you that?”

“In a-“

“In a way, yeah,” Tommy finishes for him, “you really do talk a lot without saying anything, Alfie.”

“You wound me, Thomas,” comes in reply with Alfie’s usual theatrics, but blue eyes bore back into him unamused, so he drops them, “Yeah alright, nosy fucker… I want to open me own bakery. Have to fucking save up for that, don’t I?”

Tommy nods, “you’ve got a dream,” he says fondly.

“Oi,” Alfie admonishes, “no dreaming allowed in _the creed_. Only fucking leads to disappointment,” he nods to himself, “you don’t expect anything from life and it can’t fucking disappoint you, right?”

Tommy’s done with the salve and now turns to lean on the counter, facing the other man, “and yet you dream,” tone just as fond as before, making Alfie stare up at him, an unsure expression on his face. It feels nice to have the upper hand in a conversation with that madman for once, but Tommy doesn’t feel like torturing him with his words, so he quickly breaks the tension, “the salve is ready, where do you want to do this?”

Alfie seems grateful for that. He clears his throat, “my bed, I presume. But I’m getting a fuck ton of towels, alright mate? That fucking shit ain’t touching my fucking sheets, yeah.”

True to his word, Alfie does get a _fuck ton of towels_ from the bathroom and goes into his room and Tommy follows behind. The baker’s room is, well it’s a clusterfuck. There are odd trinkets, clothing items and books scattered everywhere, his closet door hangs half open, the curtains are drawn, shrouding the room in dim light and the air is thick and musky. Tommy can’t help but manoeuvre his way towards the window, free it from the thickness of fabric being the curtains and pry it open, filling his lungs with the cold fresh air that invades this sanctuary of clutter. The dust it unsettles reflects the newly invading rays of light, lighting up half of Tommy’s face as he looks at Alfie in disapproval.

The other man shrugs, “I’ll clean it later, your Highness,” and waddles over to his bed, carelessly throwing off the blanket and cushion with one hand and then placing the towels on the mattress. Wait, cushion?

“That’s not a pillow,” Tommy points at it, now laying on the ground.

Alfie looks at it, “it’s also not an elephant. Wonder what else it isn’t.”

“I’m serious.”

“You trying to tell me I’m fucking not? Is it perhaps a fucking elephant?” Alfie continues fidgeting with the towels.

“Alfie,” Tommy’s voice is stern.

“What?”

“You don’t have a spare pillow,” Tommy sounds incredulous, “you gave me yours yesterday.”

“I was being nice, wasn’t I?” Alfie offers innocently.

“And now your neck is fucked,” Tommy adds, still in disbelief. The baker really doesn’t seem like someone who would do selfless acts like that. Giving someone his pillow even though it’s a great discomfort for him? He must have some hidden agenda, “why would you do that?”

Alfie seems genuinely offended and stops to stare Tommy straight in the eyes, “fucking hell, mate, can’t anyone do anything nice for you without some fucking scheme behind it? You,” he points accusingly, “were a right fucking mess yesterday, yeah, and I’m not someone who enjoys seeing people suffer so I thought, right, maybe I could fucking survive a night with a fucking cushion so you can be a little bit more fucking comfortable. That not fucking reason enough?”

Tommy’s face is still set in confusion, but he doesn’t prod any further, “take off your shirt and lay on the bed,” he commands instead.

“Of course, your Highness,” the other man growls and sets about doing just that. When he is comfortable on the bed, Tommy sits down on the bed beside him and takes some salve on his right hand, before beginning to rub it over Alfie’s broad back. Gently at first.

Alfie hums at the touch, then quirks an eyebrow in the other man’s direction, “not gonna sit on my arse?” it seems like an honest, if ridiculous question.

“When’s the last time you’ve had a masseuse sit on you, Alfie?” he chuckles.

“Well, never,” the laying man seems to be concentrating, “though I can’t say I’ve ever been to a masseuse.”

“Never?” Tommy can’t hide the surprise in his voice, “you’ve got a bad back and you’ve never been to a masseuse?”

“Nah, don’t be silly,” is the reply, “it’s too clinical, mate. Don’t like just anyone touching me, you know,” Tommy thinks about being labelled as _not just anyone_ as he begins mapping out the knots, then digging his palm into the first one, right between the shoulder blades, “ah, fucking Christ, Tommy,” Alfie curses, “fucking hell, go on, fuck. Ain’t as fucking weak as you look, are you?”

For that, Tommy may or may not dig into the knot a bit deeper than strictly necessary, eliciting another string of curses from the man beneath him. He works through the knots, one by one, Alfie’s squirming and cursing slowly replaced by a couple of groans. Tommy hits a knot in the lower back just right and Alfie fucking _moans_ after which the massaging man needs a moment to collect his thoughts. Still, his hands wander over the broad back not strictly only for Alfie’s pleasure, though he seems to enjoy himself a lot, becoming loose and pliant.

Tommy feels a need then, a need to touch and be touched. Seems to be a theme with Alfie, making Tommy feel things he’d forgotten he could feel. When they’re done, Tommy tells Alfie to keep still and fetches a damp towel to wipe the excess salve off his back. When the salve is cleaned off, Tommy ventures a brave caress across Alfie’s back, tracing the tribal tattoo on his right shoulder blade. Alfie hums in approval, eyes setting onto Tommy’s, then turns around to lay flat on his back.

Tommy is now tracing lines on Alfie’s torso, his index finger a feather light touch, slowly moving lower as hungry blue eyes set themselves on the baker’s lips. Alfie lays there, silent and waiting. He doesn’t make a move himself, but he doesn’t move away from Tommy’s touch either. Tommy straddles the other man, “this how your massages usually go, mate?” Alfie asks playfully.

“Shut up,” Tommy smiles himself, leaning in to kiss Alfie before he changes his mind. Alfie’s lips are warm and inviting and his beard brushes gently at his skin. This is reckless of him, he knows. Technically, he and Mosley are still a thing and he’s only known the man below him for half a day, effectively, but any doubts he has about the situation are erased the moment strong hands grip his hips and move tenderly across his torso to cup his face.

The touch is so much softer than Tommy would have expected, or has ever experienced, it almost brings tears to his eyes. He wants Alfie to take over, needs those strong arms to pin him down, that low voice to tell him what to do. Tommy wants to submit himself to Alife and all his whims, the weight of control taken off him for just a little. A small respite.

“Alfie,” he speaks in between kisses, “I need you…”

“Fuckin hell, Tommy,” the other man groans below him, grinding up, hands squirming to get below Tommy’s shirt.

Tommy struggles but manages to push himself up again, pinning Alfie on the bed. The need is clear in the other man’s eyes, but he stops, all attention on the wicked beauty above him, “I need you to…” he stops and swallows thickly. Why is it so hard to ask?

He wants to give himself up, release, just fucking let go. And Alfie is insane and weird, but he trusts him. Just fucking say it, Tommy, “take control, Alfie. I want you to take control.”

Alfie lets out a deep and knowing _hmm_ and leans up to kiss Tommy. It’s possessive, the way Alfie invades his mouth, clutching his neck with his right hand, “of course, your Highness,” he mutters before reversing their positions with ease, pinning Tommy below him. Just like he’d imagined. It makes him quiver with anticipation.

Alfie gently strokes the side of Tommy’s face and arms, careful to avoid his bruise, grabbing them and pulling them together above Tommy’s head, “now, sweetheart,” speaks with a low, raspy and commanding voice, which makes Tommy’s cock twitch, “you’re gonna keep those hands right there, yeah, right there. Because you’re a good boy, aren’t you, Tommy? Fucking hell, you are,” he pulls his hands back down and begins unbuttoning Tommy’s shirt, “ and you’re gonna fucking let me make you feel good, right, hmm, so fucking good,” he mouths at Tommy’s jaw and trickles kisses along his neck until he gets to the collarbone. The compliments make his cheeks burn, but he wants to hear more.

Alfie parts Tommy’s button up and pulls the undershirt up to the laying man’s neck and hums appreciatively at the newly exposed pale skin. Tommy does his best to keep his breathing even and concentrates on keeping his hands where Alfie had left them. He feels the other man’s hands roam over him like he were fine china and he doesn’t know if he can handle Alfie being this gentle, “harder,” he gasps and it’s humiliating, but that doesn’t dull his building erection one bit.

The bearded man tuts, “now, Tommy, first of all, that’s not how we ask, is it? Ask nicely if you want something and I might provide, if I feel so inclined,” he chides, “and second, we’re not doing rough, yeah, not today, hmmm,” he slides a thumb over an exposed nipple and Tommy’s breath hitches, “would be a shame, really, with the way you react to my touch right now. A fucking beauty, you are. Nah, we’re doing this fucking gentle, alright?”

There’s a squeeze at his hips which indicates that Alfie’s question is genuine and Tommy nods. The sitting man grins at that and shifts himself lower, unbuttoning Tommy’s trousers and pulling them down and off along with the socks, leaving Tommy’s underwear on. While he’s at it, he discards his own sweats and socks, leaving them all in a heap on the floor.

Returning to Tommy, who has, as was instructed, not moved an inch, Alfie feels a reward is in order, “obedient little thing, aren’t you? I’m impressed,” he mouths along the insides of Tommy’s thighs, spreading them slightly as his hand moves higher to palm at Tommy’s cock. He’s already hard and panting.

“Hmm, so needy,” Alfie says fondly, tugging at Tommy’s waistband. Tommy is focused intently on the other man, craning his neck to get a view of the baker pulling down his underwear, setting neatly between his legs, as if he were meant to be there, but he doesn’t touch him and Tommy could whine. He waits for the man between his legs to do something, but he seems entirely content on just watching Tommy squirm.

“Something you want, sweetheart?” that fucker asks, innocently as ever. Tommy wants desperately to feel Alfie to touch him, or to at least be able to touch himself, but he’s not allowed to move, “Aflie, fuck, just do it.”

“Do what?” Alfie breathes, a small breath away from the pulsing and untouched piece of Tommy, “if you want something, right, fucking ask. _Nicely_.”

“Fuck,” Tommy’s cock twitches, “Alfie, _please_ , I… I want your mouth on me.”

Alfie doesn’t hesitate and licks a long stripe from base to tip, making Tommy moan and arch into it. The baker’s firm hands are steady on Tommy’s thighs as he takes him into his mouth. It’s a heavenly feeling and it doesn’t take too long for Tommy to be a moaning and shivering mess. He’s too close. Alfie seems to notice that when Tommy bucks into him, causing him to choke a little.

“Tommy,” he warns, “now, that wasn’t very fucking nice, was it?” he moves to loom over said man, whose sorry blue eyes stare right back. Alfie intends to keep his stern expression but when Tommy says _sorry_ with that cracked and broken voice of his, he kisses him gingerly, “it’s good, love,” his left hand serves as support as he reaches into the nightstand for condoms and lube, “I’m not mad, right, and you’ve been very good, yeah? And you’re going to be good for me again now, aren’t you sweetheart? Let me fuck you all nice and slow, hmm.”

Alfie coats his fingers with lube and gently places them at Tommy’s entrance. He kisses him as he prods at the hole and deepens the kiss when he pushes the first finger in. Tommy’s body welcomes his finger eagerly, pliant and completely unresistant. A second finger follows and then a third, stretching Tommy, and the young man arches and gasps into Alfie when he reaches _that spot_.

Alfie pulls out his fingers and puts on the condom, adding a generous amount of lube. He strokes himself languidly, hovering over Tommy, “I want to hear you, yeah?” he whispers close to Tommy’s face, “no holding back, Tom.”

Tommy nods and Alfie pushes in. It’s a sensation he’s felt many times, but still it feels entirely new. It’s intimate this way, facing Alfie, seeing the reverence in his face as he bottoms out, as if Tommy were someone special and not just a fucktoy. Alfie starts moving a bit too quickly and Tommy winces a bit, the burn not entirely gone from the intrusion yet. It’s alright, Tommy thinks, it’ll pass in a bit, but to his surprise, Alfie stills and peppers kisses along his jawline, patiently waiting for the pain to subside.

When he begins moving next, Tommy moans. The bearded man seems more than content with the noises Tommy makes, which are, as per instruction, not at all toned down. At some point Alfie reaches out his hand to Tommy’s, “you’re allowed to move, now, love,” he whispers between gentle thrusts and Tommy’s hands are immediately upon him, through his hair and across his back, pushing him closer. It makes Alfie pick up the pace and it doesn’t take long until they’re sweaty and exhausted and on edge.

Tommy wants so badly for Alfie to touch him, and he wants to ask properly, he really does, but all he can say is the other man’s name in a pathetic whimper.

“S’alright, love,” Alfie coos, “I got you,” and tugs at Tommy’s dick. It doesn’t take much and soon after that Tommy comes all across their stomachs, spasming wildly around Alfie, who follows soon with a chocked _Fuck._

Tommy floats in a blissful afterglow. He feels a slight twinge when the man above him pulls out, taking the condom off and tying it up before placing it carefully on the nightstand. Tommy is feeling suddenly very insecure about this whole affair, his needy hands grasping weakly for Alife. He wants him to stay. He’ll promise to be good, be better, he just needs him right now.

Before he can spiral, Alfie’s weight is back on him like an anchor, strong hands gently stroking his cheeks, face close.

“Shh, it’s alright, love,” the other man speaks soothingly, “you did wonderful, yeah? Fucking great, you were,” kind green eyes set on Tommy, lips chasing away his insecurity, one kiss at a time, “so fucking good for me, you were. Hmm, I’m proud of you, Tommy.”

Tommy feels a tightness in his chest when he feels Alfie lift up. The other man pulls a towel from beneath them and wipes away the worst of the mess, throws that on the ground and tugs at Tommy’s messy shirt and undershirt.

“Should probably get that off, yeah?” he offers fondly, helping Tommy out of said items, discarding them on the floor as well, all the while giving him praises and kisses and soft touches. Alfie puts on his underwear and helps Tommy put on his own, then offers him the black shirt he’d been wearing before. When Tommy’s brow crinkles in confusion, he offers, “some like to wear my shirts after, makes them feel safe or something, but if you don’t want to-,”

Tommy reaches for the shirt and pulls it on as Alfie gathers the blanket off the floor and wraps the dark-haired man in that too. He then lays on the bed with Tommy and pulls him close beneath the covers, stroking through his hair as the other man buries his face in his chest.

“What a fucking treasure you are,” Alfie mumbles among other sweet nothings into Tommy’s hair. The baker seems to radiate heat and Tommy feels warm and safe. He huddles closer to the warmth, “Alfie,” he croaks.

“Hmm?” he hears from the man who then places a light peck in his hair.

“Thank you,” he mumbles. Alfie tightens the embrace and continues with his mutterings while Tommy drifts off.


	3. Roommate fun part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of sickly sweet fluff and Tommy sees his sister.  
> Things get cleared up between the two roommates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone say drown me in fluff? Because yes.

When he wakes up, Tommy wakes alone in Alfie’s bed, his head now resting on a pillow, covered with an additional blanket. From behind the door he can hear faint noises from the kitchen. He’s still hazy and he buries himself deep beneath the soft fabric until he disappears entirely from the outside world, huddled inside his little cocoon. Alfie’s warmth seems to still be present under the covers. Tommy himself was never this warm.

In his small and comfy space with the muffled noises of cooking, Tommy has time to think. He thinks about Alfie’s gentle hands and soft lips. About his ridiculously plump mouth all over him. About how safe he felt with someone he could barely classify as not a stranger. But this was wrong, wasn’t it? Tommy should feel bad. He betrayed Mosley. He should call him back, apologise, beg. Maybe he’d be forgiven, if he grovelled enough. But he doesn’t want to do that. Because he doesn’t feel bad. Just warm and safe, mind wandering again.

_A quick fuck. Perhaps a fake number._ All part of _the creed_? Perhaps that’s why Alfie was so good to him, so lenient. No long-term discipline needed for a quick fuck. Maybe Tommy was just a fucktoy after all. But it felt so nice and he was so kind, he has to care, doesn’t he? No, he really doesn’t. _Fuck_. But Tommy, he cares.

It’s that revelation that makes him rub his eyes to keep the tears away. So fucking quick? It’s not love, of course, but it’s the beginnings of something real and that scares him. Tommy pulls the covers down to breathe fresher air, deciding he can’t stay in his head any longer, or things will surely go to hell.

He notices a glass of water on the nightstand. It wasn’t there before so he takes a sip, assuming it’s meant for him, along with a piece of chocolate placed neatly on a tiny plate and a note that reads _Eat it or I will eat you_. He huffs but decides it’s a small enough piece for him to eat, so he obeys the note, giving it a middle finger as he does.

Tommy stands on shaky legs, slightly sore from his earlier activities, fully intending to put his pants back on, but Alfie’s grey sweatpants catch his eye. He might as well match the shirt he’s wearing, which hangs loosely on his slim frame. As if he’s playing dress up in his big brother’s clothing, having to tie the string in the pants tightly to prevent them from slipping down. He’s uncomfortable with the now heavily dark purple bruise showing, so he picks up a relatively clean black hoodie from a heap of clothing and pulls it over his head. It dwarfs him even more than the shirt, but he really doesn’t care at the moment.

When he opens the door, he’s greeted by a sight that really shouldn’t feel as familiar as it does. Alfie, new shirt, same black sweatpants, is diligently working the skillet, brow furrowed in concentration, hands skilfully manoeuvring kitchenware as he’s preparing a meal.

“Smells good,” Tommy comments, feeling the need to call attention to himself in some way.

Alfie’s face brightens with a smile. He looks over his shoulder, then eyes the other man in awe, “fucking hell, Tommy,” he breathes, “trying to give me a heart attack, are you? Fucking unbelievable fucking beauty, you are.”

Alfie sets the heat to low and pads over to his blushing roommate, ignoring what would be considered polite personal space and pulling him close for a quick kiss, hands gently placed on slender hips, “how you doing, Tommy? You alright?” His eyes are honest and searching and Tommy can’t take that at the moment, so he leans on Alfie’s shoulder to hide his face, muttering _mhm_.

“Bashful, now, are we?” Alfie teases sweetly, placing a hand on Tommy’s head, carding through his hair, “that’s alright. Was brave what you did before, yeah. Maybe a bit reckless. Considering how little you know me. Takes a lot of trust on your part, right? Not the direction I thought that was going either, no, but I can’t say I’m disappointed,” he smiles, “Ate that chocolate too, didn’t you? I could taste it, mate. Good stuff, innit?”

Tommy smiles into the other man’s shoulders and nods slightly. Alfie lets him go, gesturing towards the table and returning to his work, “got a little bit left to do here, but you’re welcome to keep me company until lunch is made, if you like.”

Tommy sits down at the table, avoiding Alfie’s chair, “do you need any help?” he offers.

“Nah, mate,” the other man answers, “prefer doing this on my own. Here,” he hands him another glass, “need to hydrate properly. Bet you don’t fucking do that on your own, given your fucking eating habits, mate.”

Tommy’s glare is answered with a wink, but he drinks the water anyways. Only because he is actually very thirsty.

“You’ve done this before,” Tommy starts after a while, pulling the sleeves of the jumper over his hands, “the whole… domination thing.”

“Yeah, of course I have,” Alfie answers, “and I’m fucking good at it, ain’t I?” he doesn’t wait for an answer, “takes practice, you know, experience, yeah. Some intuition as well, mhm,” he seems thoughtful, “and so have you, my dear.”

It’s a statement, not a question, but Tommy answers, still, “Oswald. He introduced me.”

“Ah, of course he did. And I’m guessing Oswald is no nice or forgiving Dom,” the cooking man says, “if your fucking behaviour before is of any indication,” he glances over his shoulder to see the confused expression on Tommy’s face, prompting an explanation, “you were fucking obedient as all hell, mate. Which is great and all, but it felt almost like, I don’t fucking know, you were scared to do wrong? And when you did do wrong, because it’s fucking impossible not to, right, and I did my _you were a bad bad boy_ voice, you fucking seemed genuinely sorry and all, like you really fucking wanted to avoid punishment, yeah? Which makes me wonder what the fuck kind of punishment you’ve received.”

Tommy takes a moment to think before responding, “isn’t the point of punishment to discourage _bad_ behaviour?”

Alfie chuckles, “yeah, with fucking kids it is. Or fucking animals. Prisoners, yeah, not your fucking sexual partners, hmm? It’s supposed to be fun, right, playful and shit,” the other man looks at him back, unsure. Tommy hesitates for a moment, but asks anyways, “and what would a _fun_ punishment look like to you?”

“Good lord, Tommy,” he seems genuinely surprised at the question, clearing his throat before going on, “well, depends on the mood. I like spanking, yeah, that’s always fun. Maybe tying you up and making you beg, that’s always nice. Usually it’s some sort of teasing or edging when I’m involved. I’m not into extreme shit to be honest, but I’m flexible to my partner’s desires. Doesn’t matter, point is, right, it’s always supposed to be fun for both parties, otherwise what’s the fucking point?”

Tommy nods. He knew Mosley was rougher than most, but the punishments when Tommy stepped out of line were… Safe to say it wasn’t fun, no.

“So, if I wouldn’t have frozen up,” he feels suddenly interested, “you would have done what? Spanked me?”

“Nah,” Alfie shakes his head, “probably just nipped you a little. Not enough to really hurt, yeah, just a little sting. Would have kissed it better, too.”

That does sound more appealing than what he’s used to, “maybe next time,” Tommy adds. Why did he say that? Who says there will be a next time? _Sow the seeds but do not tend the garden_ , right? He should have just kept quiet. He means to take back his words when Alfie nods, “sounds lovely.” And that’s that.

Alfie finishes his cooking and serves lunch. It’s some sort of meat with a creamy sauce, vegetables and mashed potatoes. They sit and eat while Alfie explains the various uses of butter, not only in baking but in everyday life and spends the better half of the conversation (monologue, really) besmirching margarine, saying _it can go straight to Satan’s arsehole in hell and be not butter there._ Tommy listens and eats, managing to finish most of the meal he’s been given. The other man encourages him to take a couple of extra bites.

When they’re done with their food, Tommy refuses to let Alfie stack the dishes on the newly forming clutter in the sink and sends him away while he cleans them. After that, he takes a shower, shaves and dresses in his own clothes, knocking on Alfie’s door to return the shirt, sweater and pants.

Alfie offers to take Tommy on a walk, to show him the neighbourhood of course, and he agrees. They spend the afternoon leisurely strolling the area at a respectable distance from each other, Alfie doing most of the talking, occasionally prodding Tommy with questions about his family ( _Four fucking siblings, mate? Four? Holy shit._ ), his work ( _Nah, mate, fucking horses make me nervous. Too fucking big for their own fucking good, aren’t they?_ ) and other important things ( _You mean to tell me you’ve never watched a single Eurovision? Ever? Fucking Verka means nothing to you?_ ).

Tommy is grateful that Alfie avoids the topic of Mosley. He’s right to assume it’s a sore spot, even if it’s something he has to deal with, eventually. Not right now though. Now he’s just having a bit of much needed fun. Yeah, that’s what this is. No need to complicate things with his roommate. They’re young healthy men who have found interest in each other’s company. Tommy’s feelings are nothing but fondness, eh? That’s what it is. He relaxes and even smiles more, prompting the other man into even more exaggerated speeches about everything and nothing.

“Oh, one thing,” Alfie interrupts himself. They’re walking back now, along a poorly maintained park, “if Chester asks, and he probably won’t, right, but if he asks,” he looks at him seriously, “we are both good Christian boys with no understanding for anything sinful, yeah? That includes the horrid offence which is homosexual behaviour. Never have we ever fucked or been fucked by a man.”

Of course his landlord is a homophobe. Tommy scoffs and Alfie continues, “plus, you might want to keep any and all women you don’t fucking hate away from him, mate. He’s a proper fucking geezer and has no sense of keeping his hands to himself, right?”

“Noted,” Tommy nods. The rest of the walk is spent discussing the superiority of dogs over cats (Tommy disagrees) and when they reach their apartment, Alfie picks up his book again and sits down on the couch to read. Tommy notices he’s not wearing his glasses. Wasn’t wearing them this morning either.

“No glasses?” he simply offers, stepping to the window for a well-deserved cigarette. He didn’t smoke before because, well, _I’ll be fucking damned if I let you blow that fucking smoke around me, yeah. Wind’s blowing over here, mate. Nah, no fucking smoking._ He assumes the living room and open window provide a better alternative in Alfie’s odd mind.

“Contacts, mate,” he speaks without lifting his gaze, “I was gonna go out and find myself a bird today and they don’t usually go for grandpa’s spectacles.”

  
_Mhm,_ the man standing by the window shrugs, finishing his smoke in silence. He notes that Alfie didn’t say his plans had changed. Tommy returns to his room and checks his phone. He’d left it there on purpose, not expecting anything but the incessant badgering from Mosley. And he’s right. 18 missed calls and some texts and a single text from Ada, confirming tea tomorrow at ten. He reads through the texts.

_Forced to find you_. Tommy’s not keen on discovering what the hell that would lead to. He thinks for a moment, types in _Fuck you_ , then deletes it. The reply he sends eventually is _I need some time alone_. The phone is put back on the nightstand and ignored. He notices then, that he doesn’t really have anything to do. When he packed, he did so in a hurry, so he’d only taken the necessities: clothing, his work notepad, a charger for his phone and toiletries he had pre-packed for business trips. His laptop, protected with a safe password of course, was left on his desk in his apartment, along with anything he could use to occupy himself with right now.

Tommy doesn’t want to bother Alfie anymore, he’s sure the other man has had enough of him, but he can’t really be on his phone, because it keeps buzzing from Mosley’s renewed attempts at calling him. The thought of blocking Oswald crosses Tommy’s mind, but he thinks that would only rile the other man up more and potentially lead to more trouble. He steps out and goes into the living room, Alfie right where he had left him, and clears his throat.

“Bored, are we?” Alfie is still focused intently on the book.

“Sorry,” Tommy tries sweetly. Now _that_ gets the other man’s full attention, “I don’t mean to bother you. Just wondering if you’ve got any good books you could lend me. In English, preferably.”

Alfie nods, basking in Tommy’s politeness, that proud fucker, “anything on those shelves is fine.”

Tommy nods and scans over Alfie’s collection. History books, classics, Crime drama and… Jane Austen? He tucks that bit of knowledge away and takes out a book on medieval torture techniques, settling himself on the other side of the sofa at a dignified distance from the bearded man. That man quirks an eyebrow his way, “really? Nah, mate, come here,” he gestures towards Tommy, who obediently, if a little hesitant, moves closer to Alfie. The baker pulls Tommy against his right side, strong hand firmly nestled around the other man’s slim waist and returns to his reading one-handed.

Tommy stiffens up at first, but manages to relax against Alfie’s shoulder. They read in silence for a while and Tommy thinks he could get used to this. He notices Alfie’s struggle reading one-handed and slides down to lay his head on the other man’s lap, laying the book aside. It wasn’t that interesting of a read, anyways. Alfie seems momentarily startled by this development, but continues his reading, eventually shifting his hands in a way where he’s able to idly stroke through Tommy’s hair.

Closing his eyes with a faint smile on his face, Tommy dozes off for the second time today. He could blame it on exhaustion, but it’s really hard to deny the comfort afforded to him by the oddly safe presence of his roommate.

His peaceful nap is interrupted by calloused hands, one in his hair, one on his cheek, tenderly caressing him into consciousness. A smiling Alfie stares down at him, “hello, sleeping beauty. I don’t mind this,” he gestures at Tommy’s relaxed form, now covered with a blanket, “but it is getting late, right, and my stomach is roaring up a storm, mate.”

Tommy nods, gradually becoming more aware of himself and lifts up, “I’ll pay you,” he says hoarsely, receiving a confused look from the other man, “for the food, I meant,” he smirks. Alfie gives a chuckle at that and stands, stretching his back as he moves into the kitchen. He looks nice, Tommy thinks for a moment.

Yes, he wears hideous clothing and probably doesn’t even own a comb, but there’s something appealing about him. There’s a bulk to him, making him appear menacing and aggressive, contrasted with his silly fucking giggles and his soft touches. It’s those fucking hands, they look as if they were made to break and tear and yet they’re so fucking gentle and warm. He’s also insane, but who’s Tommy to talk. He sits there until dinner, relaxed against the cushions and picks up the book he was reading. Alfie calls for him and they eat peacefully.

After they’re finished, Tommy wordlessly begins washing the dishes and the other man makes them some tea.

“I’ll be off to bed early, Tom,” he states, “got work tomorrow,” he clears his throat, “seeing as we’ve still only got one pillow, I thought, you know, for practicality’s sake, I thought maybe you’d like to share it with me tonight? So my neck doesn’t get all fucked again.”

Tommy nods, “for practicality’s sake.”

They spend the evening in Alfie’s bed. The baker teaches Tommy the _fun in punishment_ , as he calls it and teases the blue-eyed man with his sweet touch to a point where he’s begging to come. All in all, it’s an extremely educational time and again, Alfie takes good care of the other man once they’re done, bringing him water and chocolate, holding him close while whispering gentle praises, letting him wear his shirt again. Tommy discovers that he likes those little praises he receives and that the shirt does make him feel safe for some reason. He shares this information with Alfie, who chuckles fondly. _Good to know, sweetheart._

As they set out to go sleep, they realise that the pillow really isn’t meant for two people. Alfie says, “You know, Tommy, I’ve been told, yeah, that my chest is an excellent pillow substitute,” he lifts his arm invitingly. Despite what the past day might imply, Tommy has never been the type to cuddle, but it’s hard to resist the madman glinting at him right now, so he settles by his side, finding it, indeed, to be a great substitute for a pillow. He falls asleep to the sound of Alfie’s snoring.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Tommy!” Ada wraps him in a tight hug, bag hung loosely on her shoulder, denting her faux fur coat. Tommy returns the hug, actually happy to see her. She’s been studying abroad in America and had just gotten some free time in her schedule to visit home. Her free week just so happens to align with Tommy’s free week. Lucky coincidence.

“Hello Ada,” he says, “how’s Boston?”

“Oh, all politics and philosophy, nothing you’d care to hear about,” she grins at him and they sit down on leather seats at her favourite café, “besides, that’s not why we’re here now, is it? So, Tommy, what couldn’t wait until the family meeting? Surely, it’s not just that you missed me so much.”

He did miss her, but she’s right, “I’m going to leave Oswald,” he says bluntly.

Ada raises her eyebrows at that, mouth slightly parted, “you’re serious?” she prods carefully.

Tommy nods and takes a nervous sip of his tea.

“Fucking finally,” she half whispers, “thought I’d have to put up with that wanker forever.”

Tommy huffs a little at that, relieved if somewhat surprised at her reaction, “I thought you saw him as _delightful company_.”

“I was drunk and sarcastic,” she points out, “what’s made you see reason, Tommy?”

“He’s not good for me,” Tommy hopes that’s enough. It’s not a lie. Ada’s brow furrows, “I agree. What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he swallows, “I just need to know it’s okay that I leave him. For the family.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” she sounds genuinely confused.

“Well, a breakup could cause some trouble,” he’s cold and clinical in his delivery, “his family’s got political influence as well as good standing with many people in the real estate business. A personal grudge could be detrimental to the Shelby Company.”

“I think we’ll survive,” she says with some incredulity, “Tommy, you don’t have to suffer him for the good of the fucking company,” she leans over and takes his hand into hers, “how long have you felt this way?”

“A while,” he croaks out. It’s hard to keep his mask on, but he swallows his emotions down thickly, “he’s a bad man, Ada.”

Her grip tightens a little, “come stay with me tonight, Tommy. I’ve rented a room in a hotel. We can watch telly and eat like pigs,” she smiles, but the concern is clear on her face, “you don’t have to go back to him tonight.”

“I’m not-,” he begins, but doesn’t know how to finish. After a deep breath, he begins, “I’m not currently living there. Well sort of,” she looks at him in confusion, “I left on Saturday… I couldn’t take it anymore and I was in a bad way. I didn’t want you or the others to worry, so I went and rented a room in a shitty neighbourhood. It was cheap and convenient and I’ve spent the last couple days there.”

“Tommy!” she sounds upset, but he holds out his hand, “there’s more,” and continues, ignoring her astonished face, “I’m not alone in the flat. I have a roommate. His name is Alfie,” he pauses.

Ada seems to be hit with a realisation, “oh my god, you’re fucking him,” when Tommy doesn’t answer, only stares back blankly, “oh my god you _are_ fucking him. Tommy!”

She takes back her hand, stern expression on her stony face and thinks for a moment. When Tommy wants to explain himself, she shushes him. After a while, she takes a deep breath, “okay,” she says, “first of all, Tommy, we are your fucking family. You don’t get to avoid us when you’re in trouble just because it’s a fucking inconvenience, you moron,” she steadies her breath, “secondly, how could you just fuck someone you barely know? That’s not like you, Tommy,” she’s exasperated, “I mean, he could be crazy or dangerous.”

“He’s not dangerous,” Tommy comments.

“But he _is_ crazy?” Ada infers. Smart girl.

“He might be,” he concedes, getting a huff in return, “but he’s alright, Ada. He’s safe.”

“How can you know?” she asks genuinely.

“I don’t,” Tommy honestly replies. Ada offers him to stay with her for the night once again, but he politely declines, promising to call her in the morning and let her know he’s okay. She asks about Alfie and Tommy tells her. _A man entirely unbefitting of your social status_ , she jokes, but it’s clear she seems to like what she hears and it’s easier for her to let Tommy go home. When he returns, it’s a little over one. Tommy checks his phone. Oswald hasn’t called since yesterday and Tommy isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or not.

He does have a message from Alfie, though, whom he gave his number this morning for _emergencies only_. This particular emergency seems to involve a video of a very adorable black dog Alfie has run into on his break, licking the bearded man’s grinning face. He smiles at his screen and replies _Lovely._

Tommy occupies himself with his notebook and a pen, writing down the text he’ll be sending Mosley. Yes, he is going to be a coward about it and break up with him via text. There is no way Tommy can handle the other man’s anger in person, as is evident by the mark on his right forearm. It occupies him for the better part of an hour before he hears the front door unlock. Alfie ambles into the kitchen with a plastic bag, which he sets down before removing his jacket.

“What’s that?” Tommy asks, peering into the bag.

“Well hello to you too, Thomas,” Alfie and his theatrics, “why I’m great, thank you for asking,” he wanders back, but there’s something odd about his face, something more than just mild annoyance, “it’s for you, mate.”

“It’s food,” Tommy states. Chinese food. Tommy’s favourite, something he remembers mentioning yesterday.

“Of course it’s fucking food,” Alfie takes out a glass to fill with water, “oh, are you telling me you already had lunch today? Don’t fucking think so,” he drinks it aggressively.

“You’re not my fucking handler, Alfie,” Tommy chides and defiantly crosses his arms. Alfie puts down the glass and slumps into his chair, head resting on the wall. He looks exhausted, “just eat the fucking food, Tom.” There’s a weariness to him now and even though Tommy doesn’t feel like eating, he wants to cheer him up some way. He decides sitting in his lap is an appropriate option, hoping the other man isn’t too pissed off and doesn’t just push Tommy to the ground.

He doesn’t and Tommy settles neatly on Alfie’s lap, legs spread open over his thighs, facing him. He cups the baker’s face, “you’re getting flour everywhere,” he says fondly.

Alfie huffs a small laugh at that and lets Tommy kiss his forehead as he embraces him.

“Bad day?” Tommy hums. How is it so easy to be this domestic with Alfie? Tommy’s doing things he’s never really felt comfortable enough to do and the other man is so receptive. Almost as if he were just as touch-starved as Tommy.

“You could say so, yeah,” the man grumbles into Tommy’s chest, “and you? What have you been up to?” Seems he’s eager to change topic and Tommy is happy to oblige, jumping off his lap to retrieve his notebook and sitting back down.

“Opinion?” he offers Alfie a look at the current draft of the breakup text.

The baker studies it for a moment, a brief flash of realisation across his face in the form of a smirk, then comments, “I think this might be the most formal breakup letter I’ve ever seen,” he hands it back to Tommy, “you sure you don’t want to add Dear Sir or Madam at the start? Perhaps finish with I’m looking forward to your answer, or something?”

He receives a glaring look, but there’s no real venom behind it. Alfie’s expression turns solemn, “Tommy, we have to talk,” he gestures between them, “about this.”

Tommy closes the notebook and places it on the table, then hides his face, leaning on Alfie’s shoulder, “do we really have to?”

“Yeah, mate, I think we do,” Alfie starts, “it would be nice to have some fucking clue what the fuck this is, right? Now, I personally think you’re the most beautiful thing to have ever graced me with its presence and you’re doubly fucking dangerous because you’re good company, too, when you’re not a hazard to yourself, right? Which is to say, I like you, Tommy.”

“What about _the creed_?” Tommy can’t hide the insecurity in his voice.

“Fuck the creed,” Alfie places a careful hand on Tommy’s back, stroking lightly, “I’m not someone who fucks around, yeah, not when I’ve got something precious right at home. And I’d, for one, like to try this, you know, seriously. See what happens, right?” his breathing is a little heavy, “would you even consider me, though? As something more than just a good fuck, I mean.”

Tommy lifts himself up and looks at him, “why wouldn’t I?”

“Well,” he averts his gaze, “well for a man of your stature and wealth… I’m not the most fucking proper man, right, not at fucking all. I’ve got not fucking money and do not own a single shirt which buttons up and frankly, yeah, I’ll admit, I am a bit of a slob, so if this is just a fun fuck for you, I’d like to kn-,”

He’s interrupted by Tommy kissing him, slow and deep. It’s an effective way to shut the madman up. They part and Tommy hugs him, “you forgot to mention that you’re also insane. And as for me, I’d also like to see where this goes,” he kisses him again, “you’re definitely more than just a good fuck.”

Alfie seems contented with that, grinning up at Tommy, “but I am a good fuck, right?”


	4. He'll be alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected visitor causes some stir.  
> Warning: violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's some violence in this one, just fyi

“Nah,” Alfie huffs. He’s got his glasses on now, the contact lenses were too much of a bother, and he’s half laying on the couch, squinting at Tommy’s chicken scribble, his blue-eyed roommate tucked neatly into his right side. Alfie had managed to make Tommy take a couple of bites for lunch and then reward him for his effort with an after-lunch felatio. After some quality time in the baker’s bedroom, they decided to return to the task at hand. Tommy writing and rewriting his breakup text and Alfie critiquing it.

“What’s wrong with this one, then?” Tommy tries to sound offended, but he’s too comfortable and sated to really get his point across.

“It’s too nice,” Alfie backhands the notebook lightly, “says right here _I’m sorry_. What the fuck have you got to be sorry for?”

“Well,” Tommy begins, “I’m cheating on him, for starters.”

“Nah, mate,” the bearded man tuts, “from what I’m aware, yeah, you,” he pokes Tommy’s cheek, “practically ran away from him after he fucking assaulted you. It is therefore my professional fucking opinion, right, that he doesn’t get to demand fidelity in this particular situation.”

“He didn’t assault me,” Tommy protests, burying himself gently in the other man’s neck.

“Then what do you call this?” Alfie gestures at the vivid bruise on his forearm.

“An overreaction.”

“To what?”

“Alfie-,”

“I just want to know what happened, love,” Alfie says, “but I won’t push. Just scrap the apology. He doesn’t deserve one.”

Tommy crosses out the _I’m sorry_ , but declines Alfie’s offered addition of _You’re a cunt_. He’s ready to send this version, just has to type it out. Should be quick enough. He’ll tell his family about the breakup on Thursday during the family meeting. They don’t need to know about Alfie and what he’s come to consider their own little hidden respite in this small apartment just yet. It’ll all work out. Mosley will be out of his life and he’ll be happier for it.

He stands and moves towards his room to get his phone, but stops when he hears a knock on the door. Tommy turns to face Alfie with a quizzical look on his face, “expecting company?”

Alfie shakes his head and grunts as he gets up, “it’s probably Chester. The cunt stops by now and again to bitch at me. Act straight.”

Tommy chuckles and continues into his room as the other man ambles and there’s another curt knock, “yes, I’m on my fucking way, alright?” Alfie grumbles more to himself. Tommy takes his phone and sits down on his bed to type out the message. He gets about halfway through when he hears a familiar voice call to him from around the corner.

“Thomas!”

He feels a chill creep up his spine.

“Thomas, answer me!”

“Alright, fuck off!” Alfie’s voice is a stark contrast to Mosley’s. Both aggressive, assertive, but one hiding its anger below a thin veil of composure. How the fuck did he find him?

Could Ada have told him? No, she would never. But nobody else knew where Tommy went, at least no one who knows Mosley. Tommy stands and leaves the phone and notebook behind, carefully leaning into the view of the two men in the hallway.

Mosley is taller than Alfie and he’s probably stronger too. His suits often hide his bulk and make him look smaller, but he’s no less menacing for it. Oswald looms over Alfie, attempting to force his way into the apartment with that invisible force of feigned politeness and implied danger in his stance. The baker, however, is a boulder in his way, arms set wide, unmoving and Tommy can see the discontent in his stance.

There’s tension in the air between them, broken slightly when Oswald spots Tommy. He seems both relieved and annoyed, when he proceeds to lift his arm slightly, hovering at Alfie’s shoulder, trying to pass the rock in his way, “Tommy, thank God,” but the rock doesn’t budge, “Thomas, tell this brute to move out of my way. We need to talk.”

“Alfie-,” Tommy begins, taken back to a mindset he’d been broken out of a week ago, but is interrupted by the rock, “not gonna happen, mate.”

Something dark flashes in Mosley’s eyes, signalling the end of his patience, and Tommy really doesn’t want Alfie to get hurt. He doesn’t know Oswald’s capabilities, his training. Alfie needs to back down.

“Alfie,” the tone is stronger now, an implicit, albeit fake, confidence within Tommy’s voice, “it’s alright. We’ll take tea in the kitchen and talk. I’d like you to give us some space.”

Mosley smirks at that, “yes, why don’t you go for a nice walk?”

Alfie takes a deep breath and Tommy holds it while he sees him think. There’s no such thing as telepathy and yet Tommy is internally pleading with the other man to step down. Alfie huffs angrily, then turns and storms off into his room, slamming the door behind him.

Tommy breathes out. Mosley pads into the hallway, closing the door behind him. It feels unsafe to turn his back on him, but Tommy does as he moves into the kitchen, assuming the other man will follow. He fills the kettle, sets it on the stove and takes notice of Mosley assessing his surroundings as he sits down. In Alfie’s chair. Tommy wants to tell him to move, but it’s a ridiculous request and he stops himself.

When the kettle is set, Tommy sits down opposite Mosley, “how did you find me?”

Mosley is still looking around, leaning back, “I’ve got friends in real estate,” he says nonchalantly, “after a while I assumed you found yourself a cheap place hidden from your family, otherwise I would have had to deal with that mad dog brother of yours at my doorstep. It helps that you’re distinct. A smile and some money and I’ve got an address. I must say I’m not too surprised,” he eyes the abhorrent tablecloth, “seems we all fall back on our roots when distressed. Though, to be fair, I thought your roots would be more akin to drug use and self-harm,” he tuts, “but I guess it’s poverty.” He seems genuinely amused.

Tommy sits there, listening, and he feels small. Small and weak. No one else manages to get to him this way, to make him feel this fucking pathetic. He needs to get his shit together. He needs to fight the impulse to apologise. It takes all his willpower to look the other man in the eye, “it’s over,” there’s no way around it. It has to end. Now.

Mosley laughs. Fucking laughs.

“Tommy,” his teeth are bared, “what makes you think _you_ get to decide when _this_ is over?”

“You can’t force me to stay with you,” blue eyes stare back defiantly, but his courage is brittle.

Mosley stands and Tommy averts his gaze, tensing up, “stand up, Tommy, the kettle is about to whistle.”

He hesitates, but does as he’s told and places the kettle off the heat, immediately pressed against the counter by the other man. It’s impossible to free himself from this position and he’s turned around with ease, face forced up by a strong hand on his neck while the other holds his arms down between them. Tommy wants to scream, but the fingers at his neck clench, and he can’t breathe.

“Shh,” Mosley’s face is too close, “you speak when spoken to, Tommy, you know that,” the grip tightens and Tommy’s gasping for air now, “or have you forgotten how to be good?”

Mosley releases his arms and loosens his grip on his neck, but leans in closer, still pressing into Tommy and keeping him in place. The smaller man struggles to get his breathing under control and a fucking whimper escapes him before he can catch it.

He needs to scream, alert Alfie, fight back, do something, but he can’t. He fucking can’t. Alfie would try and fight Mosley and he’d get hurt. Tommy can’t let that happen. He’s limp in the other man’s hands. If he endures, it’ll be over soon enough, right? The hand at his neck squeezes lightly and he can feel Mosley’s interest growing at the shudder is evokes. Dread coils itself tightly in Tommy’s chest. He wouldn’t.

“You need to apologise, Tommy,” Mosley speaks into his ear, “you’ve kept me worried for days. On your knees.”

His vision gets blurred by the tears swelling in him. He clutches Mosley’s shirt, “please,” but the grip on his neck tightens again, and he lets his arms go limp as he’s pushed down to the floor. No, he can’t do this. Not anymore. He deserves better. Alfie told him that. And he trusts him. He should stay quiet, do as he’s told and no one will get hurt, but he’s terrified and he doesn’t care if it’s selfish.

He’s pushed on the ground and the grip releases enough for him to yell, “Alfie!”

Mosley yanks him up with ease and slams him into the wall, “you little gypsy shit, you never learn, do you,” the hand chokes tight, “you’re not fucking getting away from me,” his vision is blurring, “I’ll fucking teach you,” he fades into darkness.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alfie doesn’t like this.

No.

Not one fucking bit.

Tommy freezes up whenever Alfie even fucking mentions his would-be ex and now he’s supposed to let this man _take tea in the kitchen and talk_ with him? Fucking ridiculous, innit? But he hasn’t got much of a choice. It’s either a straight up brawl right here, right now, with this tall posh wanker, or a potentially manipulative conversation over tea. Alfie, for one, would much prefer the fucking brawl, if only to beat the shit out of a man who has made Tommy so afraid to disobey when they’re fucking. But Tommy asked him to back down and he can’t deny those beautiful blue fucking eyes anything, can he?

That’s the whole fucking issue, right? That man just waltzed in, a right fucking mess with his drugs and beguiling beauty, and swept Alfie off his feet within moments of meeting him. Destroyed his whole fucking notion of the world by next evening. He storms into his fucking room. Alfie won’t be in the way, but he sure as fucking hell isn’t leaving. It’s his apartment too.

He sits on his bed and stares at the wall. He can’t hear what they’re saying, just that they’re talking and it takes a lot of impulse control to prevent himself from listening in. But he trusts Tommy, trusts that he knows what he’s-

“Alfie!” a muffled yell, followed by a yelp and a thud. Not good. Not fucking good.

Alfie, yeah, can move incredibly fucking quickly when he likes, thank you very much. He thinks himself through the door immediately, crashing in on a passed-out Tommy sliding down against the wall, marks forming around his neck, and the other man turning to face him. He’s smiling, that fucker. It’s all it takes for Alfie to lose control, blinded by the rage boiling up in his blood.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Tommy comes to, he’s on the ground. As his surroundings come back into focus, he sees the two men fighting on the floor. Alfie’s got the upper hand and is laying one blind blow after another on the figure below him. Mosley struggles to keep his guard up and it’s clear they’re both fairly beaten up, but there seems to be no end to the baker’s rage.

Tommy knows Mosley tries to play the long game in these situations, to tire his opponents out. He’s seen his boxing matches. But Alfie is like a threshing machine and there will be nothing but a bloody pulp left if Tommy doesn’t intervene.

He tries to call out to Alfie, but his throat protests and he has to stand on shaky legs to grab the other man from behind. It’s just a hand on the shoulder, but once it’s there, he feels a shift in the other man’s posture, minute, but enough. Alfie stops his relentless beating and slowly stands back up, still facing Mosley, putting himself like a shield between him and Tommy. The only acknowledgment of Tommy’s presence that he gives is an offered bloodied hand to the man behind him. Tommy takes it gladly.

Oswald staggers to his feet. He’s definitely worse for the wear, trying to find his footing, but stumbling, having to steady himself against the wall. Mosley’s face is bruised and bloody and utterly incredulous. Tommy can’t fault him. He’s surprised as well. Alfie, the baker with a bad back, stands there, chest heaving, seemingly prepared to go on with this forever.

“Fuck off,” Alfie spits and for the first time, Mosley is the one who obeys, attempting to compose himself somewhat, as if he weren’t half beaten to death, before exiting the apartment without a word.

Alfie follows him and locks the door when it closes. He returns to Tommy, embracing him tightly. He then pulls them apart enough to look the other man over, hands gently stroking at the nape of his neck, “we need to get you to a doctor,” the baker speaks and Tommy would laugh in his face if his throat allowed him. That madman worries about Tommy as he himself is barely standing, panting, practically swelling like a balloon at certain places and bleeding from his lip, nose and knuckles.

They end up in separate exam rooms, questioned by the nurses at first, then the doctors and eventually, the police. Tommy tells them about the altercation in as vague a manner as he can. He doesn’t want a potential legal case, because he knows it would be a dreadfully public affair. Besides, if he doesn’t press charges against Mosley, then Mosley probably won’t press charges against Alfie. He also hopes embarrassment will play a role in Oswald downplaying the situation. He’s always been a very prideful man.

The doctors fuss around him for a bit, but ultimately, his injuries are deemed minor. He’s prescribed some pain medication and given strict instructions to refrain from straining his throat. He still can’t talk without wincing, so he’ll have to forego that for a little while. Tommy wants to ask about Alfie, so he writes the question down on a piece of paper and shows it to a nurse. She leads him upstairs. He can hear the man before he sees him.

“This is fucking ridiculous.”

“Sir, I’m going to have to insist-,”

“No fucking way, mate.”

He steps into the room to see a disgruntled nurse with a nightgown in hand, pushing it towards a very unwilling Alfie, still in his bloody clothes, now cleaned and bandaged up.

“It’s not up for discussion, you’ve got blood all over yourself. Put this on or we will have to make you,” her voice is firm.

Tommy chuckles wordlessly from where he’s standing at the doorway, ignoring the slight sting he feels in his throta. Alfie looks happy to see him but the nurse seems slightly more annoyed than before. He gives an apologetic look.

“Just want to see my nice arse, right? Could have fucking asked,” he snatches the gown and limps into the bathroom, the nurse crossing her arms and waiting patiently for him to return. When he does, clad in nothing but the bandages and loose hospital fabric, she seems satisfied enough and leaves.

Alfie limps to the bed and crawls onto it, exhaling heavily once he’s laying down.

“It’s only one night. For observation, right?” he grumbles, fiddling with the blanket. He seems almost like a grounded teenager. Certainly pouts like one, “they’re afraid of hidden bleeds or something like that. Like that fucker could have done any real damage,” he turns his head to Tommy, “and you? You’re good, yeah?”

Tommy nods and approaches the bed, sitting at the edge and taking hold of the other man’s hand.

“Still hurts when you speak?” Alfie asks and Tommy nods again, “well it’ll pass in a bit. You should go home, get some fucking rest,” the other man shakes his head, squeezing Alfie’s hand, “I’ll be fine, mate, got lovely fucking nurses who already hate my guts to keep an eye out for me, so don’t you fucking worry. They’re letting me out tomorrow, right, and when I get home, I expect you to be well rested and fed, mhm, or there will be hell to pay, mate.”

Tommy just gives him a mischievous look that says _Promise?_ and leans in to kiss Alfie’s cheek, squeezing his hand once again. He stays a little longer, listening to Alfie complain about the thin fabric he’s forced to wear, the call he’s had to make to his boss, who apparently still asked him to come to work later this week before he hung up on him and the utter audacity of the policeman who dared ask him if he had any prior convictions based on “intuition”, _which is just a cheeky fucking way of saying I look like a fucking criminal. Fucking cunts_.

The nurses herd him out when visiting hours are over and he returns to their apartment. Tommy is already tired when he comes home, but he still spends the evening cleaning up the mess they’d made, pushing himself beyond exhaustion, then passes out on Alife’s bed.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bruise is a strongly present purple patch on his neck. It’s Thursday now and the family meeting’s in an hour down at the Garrison, Arthur’s pub. Tommy has been fiddling with his collar in front of the bathroom mirror for ten minutes now, when Alfie lumbers in and hugs him from behind, tenderly intertwining their fingers and pulling them down to Tommy’s waist.

The baker is wearing sweatpants and nothing else, radiating heat where he’s pressed close, trailing kisses on Tommy’s shoulder, “give it a rest, love,” he mumbles against the bruise.

After coming home from the hospital, Tommy prodded Alfie about his fighting experience. Turns out that old back injury was from competitive kickboxing, something Alfie was apparently very good at. He’d even done some MMA training, but his back prevented him from every going professional. He’s also been in several unlicensed fights back in the day when money was tight. _It’s all about the eyes, mate. If they think you’re a crazy person, a complete fucking loony right, they think you don’t have any fucking limits and they just give up._

It was clear, however, that Mosley had done his fair share of damage as well, given Alfie’s slow movements and even more frequent grunts. Tommy was more than happy to dote on him, whenever Alfie let him. It felt nice to be on the other side of a situation like this for once.

Ada almost lost her mind when she came over to visit Wednesday, scolding both of them for not involving the police sooner, taking full advantage of Tommy’s hoarse throat, monologuing something about sensibility. She’d looked at Tommy with those sad eyes when she saw the marks. Feeling embarrassed, he eventually put one of Alfie’s hoodies on to cover most of his neck. Ada had eventually agreed to keep things to herself and even had a lovely chat with Alfie after that, to Tommy’s pleasant surprise.

It had been nice overall, these past few days. But now he has to face his family and all they will see is the bruise. They’ll pity him. They’ll think he’s not up for work and want him to take another break, or just stop working altogether. He’ll be cast aside, because he’s useless. He’ll-

“Tommy,” it’s Alfie’s voice in the crook of his neck, “calm down,” it’s a command and the baker’s embrace is tighter now. Like a secure shelter from all this bullshit he has to deal with. Tommy notices how his heart hammers and focuses on following Alfie’s slow breaths as the other man trails more languid kisses from Tommy’s neck to his jawline, “what’s got you in a twist, sweetheart?” he gently speaks next to his ear, holding eye-contact through the mirror.

Usually, when asked this kind of thing, Tommy doesn’t like answering truthfully. It makes him vulnerable and usually the person asking doesn’t really care. But Alfie cares. That much he knows now. And he’s already been vulnerable with him in ways he hasn’t with other people. Something about him makes Tommy open up so willingly. Maybe it’s the way he holds him, strong, warm and secure, as if even if he were to fall apart, he could hold the pieces together.

“They’ll see,” he frees one of his hands, stroking at the base of the bruise, “I don’t want them to think I’m weak.”

Alfie ponders that, then moves to the other side of Tommy’s neck, mouthing right along the top of his collar, “we could give them something else to focus on,” he kisses lightly at the spot. Tommy chuckles, ducking his head. A fucking hickey? What are they, teenagers?

But he nods anyways, his breath hitching slightly Alfie begins sucking on Tommy’s sensitive skin. He leaves a big, unmistakable mark and smiles at the other man in the mirror.

“So much for keeping this relationship quiet for now,” Tommy laughs. It’s stupid, but he feels better, turning around to properly thank Alfie with a deep kiss.

That madman, his madman, he was right, wasn’t he? Tommy Shelby, yeah, he’ll be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is :D  
> I realise I've left a lot of things open. I'm thinking about making this into a series and adding one-shots to it, so maybe I'll explore things like Tommy's confrontation with his family, Arthur reacting to all this shit and other things :P  
> We'll see :)  
> Hope you enjoyed the fic :D it was really hard to write the ending, I'm never good at action/violent scenes :P fluff is where my expertise is at heh


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